


Lovecraft was an Asshole

by Kapho



Category: Original Work
Genre: Desert, Drug Use, Eldritch, Extended Metaphors, Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lovecraftian, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22271017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kapho/pseuds/Kapho
Summary: A short story about drugs, change, and lack thereof in a "Lovecraftian" context.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	Lovecraft was an Asshole

**x-1: Foreword**

Now, I've never read any Lovecraft. I've seen a film representation or two, but I've never really licked at the surface of this asshole's work. Why do I call Lovecraft an asshole, may you ask? It's quite simple, really. From what I've seen, his work uses flowery linguistics and bullshit language as he keeps trying to scratch at non-euclidean bits and bobs of his wee space tentacle monsters that control reality.

I ain't about that.

I'm more interested in describing terror with relatable bits and bobs so that any given reader can nod sagely in response to my writing and say,

"Yep, that's awful" as they lick their thumb and tap their computer device's screen with their filthy fingers to play an animation and turn the page.

But, I digress.

What is the point of this long form bit I'm doing on your screen with wiggly English runes? I would say it's most likely a critique on uninformed critiquing — in other words, my least favorite form of critiquing. Like I said, I don't know a damn thing about Lovecraft (other than the fact that he was probably a self-hating closeted homosexual) or his work. So why did he make into the title? Why do I keep asking questions without getting anywhere? Who knows.

I think the real thing to note here is one shouldn't critique something they don't understand. I can say Lovecraft's work was pretentious, contrived, and uninspired. The worst part about me saying that isn't that I'm uninformed, but rather that there would be a percentage of readers that would (once again) nod their heads sagely and say,  
  
"Yep, that's awful" in regards to Lovecraft's work.

And isn't that just awful?

So maybe, before you read what you're about to read, turn your fucking brain on. Rub a brain cell or two together and actually think about what I'm trying to tell you. Otherwise you'll just be lost in a sea of seemingly "ironically bad and pretentious" writing that doesn't seem to get anywhere.  
But maybe that's the point. At this point, I'm not really sure what the point is.

And yes, me not knowing the point of all this here writing and making a big deal out of other people making uninformed points before I have even begun to make my point is indeed pretentious.

You got me, fucker.

Alright, alright. Let's begin.

**Prologue: The Drugs**

Unlike most typical romance stories, I had no one true love. In fact, I had two. Cigarettes and dope — and by Jesus Titty-Fucking Christ did they go well together. In my heyday I'd probably smoke twice as many cigarettes while under the influence over any given amount of time compared to when I was sober. And I was never sober. A moment sober was a moment wasted, in my opinion. Why would I do X sober when I could do X high? Clearly being sober was an inferior state of mind as I was just a wondrous sack of shit when I was high. Eating, zoning out, and making basic typos at a much slower WPM while trying to work were my specialties.

All of this came to an end after a few years, of course. My house burned down. Right to the ground. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Off it went. I awoke outside my very own paid for pile of embers and ashes. I had been pulled out of the wreck by a good samaritan. What a lovely pal he was. Saving my life and all that.  
  
I didn't thank him.

I quickly left to find somewhere else to live that wouldn't burn down on me.

**-1: Seeing Death**

It was during this rain of personalized hellfire with my eyes wide shut that I saw death's face. He was staring right at me through my closed eyes. Now, death had a very specific look about him. As you know, closed eye visuals are quite binary in their appearance. Y'know, white and black dots. Rods and all that.

Death was composed of the visual basis of everything that had ever died. An in-finite number of rotating and distorting triangles made up a gaunt humanoid face, ever shifting to resemble different primal violent things: A claw, a mouth, and so on. His scythe was just a straight line. A guillotine blade. He raised it up, then dropped it down back into his non-hand. Over and over and over again. He was waiting. I asked him to "just do it already, pussy" but he shook his head and in that moment I understood. I didn't get to choose when I died. I was on death's time.

But the worst part was his eyes, or lack thereof.

Imagine a humanoid face, as you have been, but where the eyes would be located was just... a lack of space. It was as if the proportions of a regular face had been sucked in and were completely missing any discernible features where the eyes should be.

And yes, dear reader, this is the part where you get to fling your hands up from your keyboard and mouse and say,

"Ah-ha! You're a dirty hypocrite! You said you described the terrors of the other-world with great precision! You said you were specific! This is utter bullshit!"

And I would be inclined to agree with you. But I saw what I saw, and that's how I would describe it.

Honestly, it's your fault for trusting me to write well.

I once again digress.

**0: Quitting Drugs**

I won't lie to you, seeing death right before my very eyes put a scare in me like nothing before. Losing a few ounces of dope to an inconveniently placed storm drain didn't even compare to the done-fucked-up chill I got from seeing that monstrosity.

I made a vow to never touch dope ever again.

It wasn't difficult, really. Considering I had just lost my house and barely had fifty dollars to my name, buying more dope wasn't really in the purview of my proper existential choices provided to me through my somehow still sharp logical side of my brain.

I had to move somewhere else. Somewhere that wouldn't ask me for rent. Somewhere far away. Somewhere I wouldn't be asked questions as to why my house had been "greatly simplified" in essence.

Thus, after a pack of contemplation cigarettes, I chose the desert.

**1: Movement**

The bus ride to the desert would be a long, dry, and tired one. I opted to pop a few Valium in anticipation of this. Now, now, I know what you're thinking.

"Dear narrator! You said you kicked the dope!" and you're right. I did kick the dope. But that doesn't mean I'm above near knocking myself out with a few prescription pills now and again, especially when not doing so would just be objectively worse. I had no possessions beyond the pills I bought between 0 and 1 and the clothes on my back.

Anyhow.

I nodded off several times during the long drive. I was the only one on the bus. I wrapped myself in an old blanket the bus driver had provided upon request and splayed myself over a soft back bench. I didn't even notice as the greenery of the north turned into the sour yellow grainy piss dirt of the south. But, time passes at regular intervals and when you're high as balls this becomes easier.

Eventually, I arrived at my destination.

**2: The Desert Town**

My destination was so far removed from legitimate and technological society that I had to go through several *paper* maps to find it. The town itself had no name, of course. My arrival was greeted by a large wooden sign overarching the entrance. The sign was labeled "Welcome!". The town itself had about seven different buildings, three on either side of the main thoroughfare. A general store, four houses, and an abandoned bar. Excellent.

Now if you're the counting type, you probably realized I said *seven* buildings, not six. The last building was at the far end of town and it would be my new home. This building was a cylindrical non-tower, mud packed walls supported its incomplete wooden plank roof. Beyond the mud were yellow sandstone bricks. And those bricks? They were fucking beautiful. I loved the look of them. Solid, sturdy, nice things they were.

The only problem? There were a few missing bricks. I counted three missing ones in the wall. I needed to finish this non-tower. I would make it the most beautiful true-tower the high skies had ever seen.

I just needed to find the right bricks.

**3: The Townsfolk**

Imagine the most simplest, trusting, shining face of stupidity you can. Now multiply that by ten. Even then, you wouldn't even come close to the homogeneous humanity I found in this town. The town had four residents. Luna, John, Kayla, and Danny-boy. Every single one of them was a goddamn moron. That being said, they served a purpose. Upon my arrival and discovery of the missing bricks, I found the lot of them standing outside my new home. They spoke in unison, like a shitty Greek chorus:

"We don't know where the bricks are in particular. They're just around."

They dispersed as quickly as they arrived.

**4: Brick by Brick**

My ramshackle non-tower shack wasn't much at the time. I was determined to improve something. Even if that something was so far removed from the masses that nobody would appreciate what I had done.

I found the first brick in the abandoned bar. It was sitting on top of what used to be a cash register, almost as if someone had crushed it with the brick. The damn thing was about the size of my chest, it took all I had to even get it back to the non-tower. Throughout my waddling struggle, the townsfolk chanted in unison,  
"You got this, baby!" Over and over and over again. It was by far the most fucking annoying thing I had ever experienced on God's green earth. Eventually, I made it back and placed the brick in one of the three holes.

The second brick was a "tad" more difficult. I wandered around town all day, unable to find it. I felt despair. I wanted to give up. Only one brick, and none of these townsfolk seemed to want to talk (or even acknowledge my presence) unless they all wanted to talk. Bullshit.

I wandered the empty desert outside the town for days and days. I suffered. Oh God, I suffered. I felt my clothes rip in the sandstorms, I felt my spirit drain out from my brain, through the stem, down my body and leak out of my rotten shoes into the sand like an accidental piss in public.

Then, I found the second brick. It was at the edge of the desert. And by the edge, I don't mean there was a particular barrier or anything like that, it just felt like the edge. As if any step further in that direction would lead to a screaming fall. But it was just more desert. And that was just a feeling.  
This second brick felt a little lighter than the first. The townsfolk made a reappearance out in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere to do their stupid chant.

"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"  
"You got this, baby!"

All the fucking way back home. I seated the second brick in its rightful place. One more to go.

I exited the non-tower, on my search for the third and final brick. But no search was necessary. It was seated just outside the door. I picked it up and reentered the non-tower only to discover that there were three bricks missing again.  
  
Right back to where I began.

**5: Fuck Bricks**

It was during this moment that my brain-voice went off somewhere in a direction like this,

"Are you fucking kidding me?"  
"This is absolute garbage."  
"Where did the bricks go?"  
"How dare a towns-person steal from someone who has nothing?"  
"Total bullshit."  
"I can't believe this."  
"I fucking hate everything."  
"Fuck this."

After smoking several cigarettes to calm myself, I was filled with such determination. Such determination! I had never felt a drive like this before. I wouldn't let this illusion of lost progress deter me from my goal of completing my new living space.

I doubled down on the brick sourcing. I couldn't be stopped. Every daylight hour of every day I kept finding bricks in the oddest of places and lugging them back to my never-growing tower. This made me physically strong. I felt my muscles swell and grow to such swollen standards.

Every time I went back and saw more bricks missing, it stung my heart strings a little less. Eventually it didn't even bother me anymore. I just kept bringing more bricks that seemed to materialize when and where they felt like I deserved them.

After about a month and change of doing this, despite seemingly making no progress, I felt my work was done.

That night, I reentered my non-tower for the last time.

**6: Inverted**

Chunk. Chunk. Chunk.

That was the sound of a downward staircase revealing itself to me. I descended. Deeper and deeper I went. At the very bottom, there was a gap in the wall. A small patch of light shone through, illuminating a scrap of dirt on the floor where a lil' flower grew. I stuck my ugly face against the gap and quickly realized what I had done. I realized what all of this brick-oriented effort had been for.

This desert wasn't seated properly on any tectonic plates, no.

This desert was a fucking floating island.

The tower I had been building wasn't going up, it was going *down*. I had given this island a lovely rudder with the clouds as its sails.

As easily as one flexes their arm, I sailed the island. I drove that awesome beast through the skies to where I saw fit.

The townsfolk had disappeared by now, and I was alone. But I didn't feel alone. I had my island. My. Island. My inverted-tower. My world.

My healing spring.

My home.

**7: Return and Recall**

And that was it. I understood what I needed to do. I needed to go back to the old neighborhood. My time here was done.

Before I left, the townsfolk reappeared to give me a letter opener.

"If you ever get any letters, this will help with the opening!" they said in unison. Excellent execution. Flawless. I took the letter opener and the townsfolk disappeared as quickly as they came. It was during this island ride that I began to remember a few things.

Little bits of memory flitted their butterfly wings back into my brain where dope damage had previously prevented such things.

I remembered the good samaritan. What a guy, pulling me out of the fire and all that.  
I remembered the good samaritan. Why is he taking my clothes off?  
I remembered the good samaritan. What the hell does he think he's doing to me?  
I remembered the bad samaritan.

**8: Vengeance**  
It was at this point that I vowed to take my viewtiful vengeance. It would be quite a sight. I'd use the sentimental gift from the simple folk to do something they never could. Ha. Ha. Ha. I could see it then. I imagine the townsfolk thought I had gone mad. I would occasionally snicker to myself, the sound bouncing its way up to the inverted-tower, just barely audible to anyone at the top. I envisioned what I would do. I even rubbed my hands together a little bit like a taut television villain.

I got off the island.

**9: Fire and Blood**

I found that greasy motherfucker in his home, oh yes I did. I had the letter opener on me, but he didn't know. He greeted me warmly, not understanding why I was there. He hoped my memory wouldn't recover in my time away.

He was wrong. Ha. Ha. Ha.

When he turned around to pour me a glass of welcome water, I went for the soft bit right behind his left knee cap. I loved hearing his scream of confusion and pain. I might've let a few out during the time he ravaged me, but I don't really remember. Watching the beautiful red blood squirt out of his adrenaline-pumping veins rewarded me with such catharsis.

But that's not important.

What was important was the pain the perp was feeling then. That pain made me feel alive in that moment. It made me feel more alive than I had ever felt with any depressant, stimulant, miscellaneous achievement, or otherwise.

He fell to the ground in shock after I took a few quick slices at his spine. I felt the letter opener resist with every slice as I nicked a vertebrae or two. Then, with one great final stab to the brain stem I felled my bitch of a white whale. I think he started crying and begging at the end, but I couldn't hear him through the pure and wondrous ringing in my ears. I even dabbed my forefinger in his blood just to taste it once. Just once.

Even though it was my fault my house burned down. Even though I left a torch lighter on while passed out... I still lit this fucker's place up like my own personal Christmas. I watched the fire start and grow and then quickly made my exit after taking a bow.

Stage lights off.

Story over.

**x+1: Author's Note**

And yes, the tense, grammar, and spelling mistakes are intentional. Definitely.

Well, most of them.

3 cigarettes were smoked during the writing of this piece. It was a quickie!

Thanks for reading, kiddo.


End file.
